The Message in a Bottle Romance Collection

by Joanne Bischof

  “I feared this. The mountain…not the same as when I was young.”

  Her heart clenched. So Ari had been in Ireland alongside his brother when he was killed. She fought the urge to hug his shoulders, which were straining at the seams of his undersized tunic. Instead, she placed her hand briefly on his arm.

  Immediately, Father shot her a sharp look. “Britta—”

  He was interrupted by a guard’s sudden appearance in the room. The breathless man’s words were clipped.

  “A rider came. King Tynan’s lands have already fallen. The Normans have invaded.”

  Normans! Britta had heard of these clever, greedy men. Skilled in both rhetoric and military tactics, they were practically unstoppable in their conquests. In fact, the Normans were descended from the Northmen but had married the French and changed loyalties. They served no one but themselves.

  King Tynan’s realm was to their east. It was impossible to believe that it had fallen, with the king’s extensive forces. There would be no hope for her father’s smaller kingdom. The Normans would rule over her family and reduce them to peasants. Soon all of Ciar’s Kingdom would belong to the invaders.

  Ari continued to sit in his own stunned silence while Ronan and Father spoke with the messenger. She could not bear to hear the fear in their voices. The feast tonight would not be a time of celebration, but of preparation for war.

  Suddenly, Ari’s determined, booming voice echoed from the stone walls in the small room.

  “I must speak with my people.”

  Father stared at him, obviously shocked by the impertinence of his demand.

  Ronan did not hold his tongue. “Pray tell us, why?”

  Ari turned to Britta, his pensive eyes searching her face. But he returned his gaze to her father, palms outstretched as if beseeching him for mercy. He began to string more Irish words together than he ever had before, which made her wonder if he had understood more of their private conversations than she’d suspected.

  “I have wronged you…acted dishonorably. I rallied my crew for revenge, then led them to the wrong castle. My hatred blinded me.”

  Britta glanced at the men. Ronan looked dubious, but Father seemed convinced by what Ari had said.

  He continued. “I must ask you to let me return to my men and tell them of my foolish mistake.”

  “But you cannot walk!” Ronan spat out.

  Before she knew what was happening, Ari rose to his feet beside her. His jaw was clenched in concentration, and when he swayed a little, she grabbed his forearm to support him. He took two steps toward the men, and Ronan’s hand dropped to his sword.

  “With a sturdy stick, I could walk.” His belligerent gaze challenged Ronan.

  Britta could not restrain herself. She looked at her father. “Can’t you see? It’s the best solution. This way we do not have to take his life, thus incurring the wrath of his formidable crew. He can return to his men and sail before we have to battle the Normans.”

  While it tore at her heart to think of an abrupt departure for Ari, she knew it was the only way he could be safe. The longer he stayed with them, the more suspicious Father and Ronan would grow of his motives. If he left now, he had a better chance of surviving this misguided venture into Ireland.

  Ari shook his head, placing his hand over hers. “You do not understand. I will order my men to sail, but I will stay. There is no one better to face the Normans than a Viking. I know how they fight. I am weak, but I can help you.” He bent at the waist in a half bow before addressing her father. “It is an honor to clear my name by fighting for you, King O’Shea.”

  Chapter Nine

  The king took his daughter’s arm, walking her from Ari’s room. Ronan trailed behind them, shooting the Viking a displeased glance. Ari caught a glimpse of two guards moving into position outside his door. They were taking no chances, now that they knew he could walk again. He recognized the burly guard he’d taken with him down the stairs, and the man gave him a murderous glare before the door latched.

  After a short time, Florie brought him a meal, along with the surprising news that he was to attend the feast tonight. Did this mean the king would allow him to fight alongside his warriors? Perhaps he wanted to introduce them?

  Or perhaps he planned to announce his death sentence.

  He wished he could see out the high window to take his mind elsewhere, or that he had a book to look at. He missed those early days of Britta’s unswerving attention, when she read to him for hours. Now he wasn’t sure how she felt about him. She had suggested it was time for him to sail with his crew, so perhaps she wanted to be done with him.

  He couldn’t blame her.

  He slurped down the hearty pea soup the nursemaid had brought then tore into a piece of dry bread to sop up the remainder. Were his men eating well? Had they been able to hunt? At the very least, they would have fish from the inlet and dried meat from their ships’ supplies.

  There was a soft rap at the door, and the guard opened it. Britta entered, carrying a pale green silken tunic and trousers, along with his leather boots. He hastily wiped pea soup from his mouth and stood.

  She smiled shyly. “These clothes are for the feast. We had to borrow them from Clancy, since he is the only one your size, and the trousers may still be short. He was none too happy about it. Since there is no one with feet as large as yours, you must wear your own boots, though the servants could not clean all the dirt off.”

  He felt an actual blush creeping up his cheeks. Did she find his large feet repulsive? Taking the clothing and boots, he remained mute, unsure how to ask the question driving him mad. Would he live or die? Surely she knew.

  She spoke up. “I know you are anxious. Please know that my father is a fair king. He does not make decisions carelessly.”

  “I am sure Ronan has said much against me.” He couldn’t keep the spite from his tone. He knew Ronan’s concern for this castle went deeper than loyalty to the king. The looks the Irishman gave Britta only confirmed that he cared for her deeply.

  Her eyebrows crinkled. “You assume much.”

  “I assume only that he is not blind to the beauty living under the same roof and that he might want her for himself.” He gave her a pointed look.

  Now it was Britta’s turn to blush.

  “God will work things together for good.” Britta managed to blurt the verse out before leaving Ari’s room, unable to tamp down the fire in her cheeks. The Viking had no understanding of her God, so why had she felt compelled to say it?

  She prayed Father would accept Ari’s offer to serve with his soldiers, but it was impossible to know what his decision would be. This morning, she had told him that she believed Ari’s intent was good, yet she did not say anything beyond that. If she pleaded for the Viking’s life, it might make the king suspicious of her motives and give him further cause to eliminate Ari, or at least to expel him from their shores.

  Instead, she put on her walking boots, told Florie she was going outside, and passed through the back door into the garden. Fruit trees had begun to blossom, and the heavy scent of their white petals filled the air. Honeybees from their hive box swarmed the holly bushes, humming past her ears. A bold squirrel chirruped at her from its perch on the rock wall.

  How restorative spring was! And how fine to walk the pleasant land she would one day call her own.

  Unless…

  Unless Father demanded Ari’s execution tonight at the feast. It was not hard to imagine Ronan, standing with his sword at the long table, prepared to fulfill such a command. No one would intervene. She imagined Ari’s strong jaw dropping to his chest as his head slumped over, his powerful arms going limp as the blade cut into him.

  She sank into the soft moss. Of course she would never allow that to happen, even if it meant throwing away any inheritance her father would leave her. The Viking wanted to learn—she saw it in his eyes as she read the Latin books to him. He was an adventurer at heart, like she was, although her adventures thus far had on
ly been in her mind.

  All these years, she had felt the draw of the unknown, even as she dreaded meeting it. Perhaps God was using this Viking to push her from her cozy nest. Perhaps she would need to free Ari then steal off with him as he sailed to his homeland.

  She smiled at the image. Britta O’Shea, book-loving castle dweller, willingly joining a crew of Vikings. How absurd. She shook her head.

  Florie stepped into the herb garden, cutting shears and basket at the ready. Snipping off a few sprigs of rosemary, she spoke aloud. “You’re lost in thought, Princess. Anything you want to talk about?”

  The woman was always sensitive to her moods.

  “I don’t know what God wants me to do with my life, Florie.”

  “What do you want to do with it?”

  Britta laughed. “What does it matter what I want? God seems to want great sacrifice. Think of how brave Moses had to be, or the prophets. Think of our own Patrick, away from his home. Perhaps I must leave my home to find my future.”

  Florie gave her a thoughtful look. “Sometimes the greatest sacrifice is the one that takes you unawares. I had my own dreams of leaving this land, of returning to my home in England. But James became ill, and I don’t regret staying here all these years—for him, and for you.” She patted Britta’s cheek then tucked several leaves of basil into her basket before leaving the garden.

  Father greeted her with a kiss as she came into the great hall in the late afternoon. She hoped this was a sign that he had listened to her request to have mercy on Ari.

  “You are the most beautiful princess in Ireland, my Britta. Fresh as a white rose.”

  She spun in the pale blue velvet dress he had brought her, enjoying the swirl of its flared skirt. Buttons ran in a straight line down the bodice, skirt, and wide sleeves, and dark blue satin trimmed the hem. She fingered the pearl crown on her head, hoping the twists of hair Florie had secured beneath it would not come loose and give her a bedraggled appearance.

  Ronan positioned himself next to Father, his familiar red tunic draped with gold fabric. He could easily be mistaken for a king himself, even without a crown. He raised his dark eyebrows at Britta, and she detected only one well-hidden emotion in the depths of his eyes: sadness.

  Had he and Father decided to execute Ari? Or was he upset because she cared for the welfare of a barbarian?

  Her father’s men were situated around the table, eating cheese and bread until the main course was brought out. The pleasantly heavy smells of herbed pork and stuffed pheasant filled the hall, stirring her hunger. She looked up at the dark oil portraits hung over the hearth, boasting generations of O’Sheas. Would her portrait and her children’s portraits hang there someday? Or would the castle fall to the Normans first?

  A hush fell over the room as the guards opened the door and Ari made his way toward the table. He clung to a wooden staff, yet his steps were more sure than she had expected. Even struggling to stand, his presence dominated the room. The pale green of the tunic seemed to cast a glow on his fair hair and beard, making him look almost angelic.

  She wanted to stand and shout, “How could you ever take this man’s life?” But she held her tongue, reminding herself this beautiful foreigner had tried to attack their castle. She would wait for her father’s judgment.

  After prayer, Father began to speak before the heaping dishes were passed. “You men know by now that this Viking, Ari, has offered to join our forces against the Normans. He regrets his hasty and misguided attempt to capture our castle, and he plans to tell his own crew to set sail without him. We have spent much time and prayer seeking fairness in this matter—for our people and for the Viking.”

  Britta looked into her father’s gray eyes, praying for the right decision. If he chose to sentence Ari to death, she would be forced to act. Her heart would not allow her otherwise. She would have to steal into Ari’s room, release him, and leave her treasonous shame behind and sail with him.

  If he would let her.

  Chapter Ten

  Ari could not tear his eyes from Britta’s anxious gaze. The appetizing smell of food only reminded him that this might be his last meal.

  King O’Shea’s voice echoed in the hall. “We have decided that we need Ari to help us fight the Normans. He can tell us of their weapons and train us to defeat them. We cannot let our kingdom fall, as King Tynan’s did. We must stop the Normans here.”

  The soldiers looked to Ronan for his agreement, and the man slowly nodded. “It is the best way.”

  Britta clamped a fist to her mouth, eyes wide, as if repressing a cry. Ari fought the urge to rush around the table to her side.

  “I will speak to my men this day,” Ari said. “I am indebted to you and your people.”

  “Thank you, Father—and Ronan,” Britta breathed.

  Ari watched as the mighty Irishman rested a tender gaze on the princess. He did not speak a word, but it was clear Ronan had only spared his life for Britta’s sake.

  Florie had firmly instructed Ari to strengthen his weak foot by walking, so he changed clothes after the feast and hobbled out into the fading sunlight. A lone guard sat by the door, engrossed in eating a small pie.

  Ari was thankful his bruises had begun to fade, and perhaps this brief activity would strengthen his foot still more, so he would not appear quite so shocking when he saw his men. He wondered if Sigfrid watched the castle, even now. Or perhaps he had stayed at the camp, honoring Britta’s truce.

  Lost in thought, Ari stumbled over a stray limb and his foot gave out. A gasp sounded from a tree above as his knees thudded to the ground.

  He looked up into the drift of white blossoms that covered a gnarled apple tree. He could barely make out one black leather shoe that protruded from under a yellow skirt.

  “I’m coming.” Britta’s voice sounded from her perch on a higher limb. She skillfully wove between the branches, keeping her skirts tucked as she descended. She carefully deposited a heavy book on the ground before dropping to her feet.

  The guard grunted and looked up, but when Britta shook her head, he went back to his pie.

  She braced her feet and grasped Ari’s hands in an attempt to pull him up. Knowing she couldn’t possibly bear his weight with her small frame, he used his good foot to thrust himself upward. As he returned to a standing position, she noted his labored breathing and gave him a half smile.

  “I am afraid I was of little use to you.” She handed him the walking stick.

  “You tried to aid me. I do not deserve your kindness.”

  She led the way toward a wooden bench that was surrounded by silvery mounds of lavender. Silence settled as they lowered onto it, but it was not uncomfortable. He inhaled the honeyed Irish scents of spring, which mingled with the fresh fragrance of Britta’s thick black hair.

  “My book!” She jumped up, racing to retrieve it from its grassy bed.

  He laughed. “Why drag such a heavy book into a tree?”

  She was surprisingly serious as she answered, her voice charged with emotion. “This book is one of my favorites. It tells the story of Patrick, a man who was taken from Britain and made an Irish slave, yet he later returned to Ireland to share the truth about God.”

  “And you…admire this man?”

  She looked over the gardens, unable to meet his eyes. “Like him, I have always wanted to tell others about God.”

  A quiet nudge moved him to say, “Perhaps you could tell me. Our gods have done nothing for me.”

  Tentatively, she shared the story of Jesus Christ with him. As she did, the voice he’d heard in the darkest recesses of his soul seemed to grow stronger, almost humming in anticipation. This God she spoke of had sacrificed His own Son for humans, so they could join forces with Him on earth then live with Him forever in His kingdom.

  Her eyes shone as she spoke of how she could cry to Him in the depths of the night, knowing He would hear.

  “When my mother died, all I had was Florie and my books. My father was often too eng
rossed in his royal duties to spend time with me. I began to read the scriptures then, and somehow my eyes were opened.”

  A sudden longing possessed him—he wanted to read. He wanted to know for himself what treasures her holy book held.

  His hand fell to the bench, unwittingly covering hers. Instead of moving his hand like he should, he wrapped his fingers around hers, savoring the velvety feel of her skin.

  Fighting the urge to bring her hand to his lips, he met her dark blue eyes. “Teach me to read, Britta.”

  She smiled, and he had to focus on the apple tree to resist the pull of her innocent, upturned face. “I will. But only if you teach me your language.”

  Britta watched from the castle gate as Ronan and Ari rode on horseback toward the Viking encampment in early-evening light. Ronan had demanded to ride alongside the Viking, to be certain he did not try to break his promise and escape with his crew.

  She watched Ari’s movements carefully. His bad foot hung a bit too limply from the stirrup on their gray stallion, but he did not slump, so his stomach bruising must be healing.

  Looking at the dirt road leading toward King Tynan’s kingdom, she shuddered, imagining fully armed Normans charging toward the castle. They would probably wear steel helmets and chain mail. Perhaps they would laugh when they saw the size of her father’s castle. How simple to take such a meager outpost!

  Florie came alongside her, taking off her kerchief and smoothing her skirts. She was going home, goodies from the feast tucked into a basket at her side. Another townswoman would set out their food late in the evening, since there were many things left over from the grandiose banquet.

  “Watching your Viking, are you?” Florie winked.

  “What? I don’t understand your meaning.”

  “Don’t think I didn’t see the two of you in the garden earlier, talking thick as thieves. Why, I even heard your father asking Ronan about your interest.”

  Britta snorted. Florie had likely been listening outside her father’s chamber last night while the men talked. Her nursemaid believed it was her duty to stay abreast of all the affairs of the castle, on the pretense the princess needed to stay aware of such things.